


Almost The Real Thing

by Sea_Witch



Category: Drarry - Fandom, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Cute, Loneliness, M/M, Sad, artist!draco
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-02
Updated: 2014-07-22
Packaged: 2018-02-07 04:52:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1885794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sea_Witch/pseuds/Sea_Witch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pretending is better than nothing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Draco stared at the canvas. This wasn't going to work. His glare flickered down to the exorbitant amount of paints on the floor. This wasn't going to work.  
  
After several minutes- or hours?- of hating everything he finally found himself picking up a paintbrush. Approximating jawlines and waiting for layers of wild hair to dry and nearly ripping the whole thing to shreds a number of times later, and he was staring into that face. He had to paint over the eyes- those _eyes_ \- several times to capture the light in them, the ever-present hint at a smile that graced the corners and made Draco's head ache.  
  
He worked for hours. He would wait for a corner of the mouth to dry only to coax it off and paint it again. He feuded with the ears longer than he'd care to admit. The nose was a torture all its own.  
  
But when it was finally over, he was satisfied. The faint light from the window told him morning was approaching. How could that be? He had started painting around noon!  
He sat on the floor, studying the drying features and daring them to live. To blink, to smile, to frown. Anything.  
  
He must have fallen asleep, as when he looked up again the sun was bright in his room. But even that burning star in all its glory could not outshine the emeralds looking down at him.  
  
"I did it," he whispered disbelievingly. Surely, he must be dreaming. But when he pinched the inside of his arm, there was no painstaking return to reality. Only those eyes, which had cost him hours of sleep, crinkling slightly in the corners as the boy in the painting looked down at him in light confusion.  
  
 _"Malfoy?_  " it said curiously, the tilt of its head making those carefully crafted black locks shift slightly to the left.  
  
Draco wasn't entirely sure what he was feeling- relief, joy, perhaps sadness that this was the only way he could ever talk to the raven-haired boy? He nodded slightly in response, reaching to test the paint gently with his fingertips. A painted hand met his own and he stared at it. "Harry," he whispered shakily.  
  
The portrait stared back at him, concern joining its confused expression. " _Malfoy, why are you upset?_ _"_ the boy within the canvas asked quietly, staring at the defeated, paint- covered figure sitting on the floor in front of him.  
"Because this is the only way I can talk to you. They... they don't know if you'll ever wake up," he said shakily, brushing colorful fingers through his platinum locks.  
  
" _What do you want to talk to_ me  _for?"_ the portrait inquired, sounding confused. What would Malfoy want with him? They'd done nothing but feud since they were eleven.  
"Because it's my fault!" the blonde answered, tugging at his hair. "It's my fault you're laying in a hospital bed in St. Mungo's, maybe never to climb out of it. I saw the spell flying at you, I should have done something."  
The painted head tilted in confusion. " _Why would you do that? You hate me."_  
"No I don't!" Draco corrected him. "I learned a long time ago that it wasn't hate. And I never told you. And now it's too late."  
  
Over the course of painstaking, tear-inducing hours, the Malfoy heir spilled out every held-back word he'd been keeping inside for years. About how Harry was honestly the 'good'est person he knew, how many nights he'd lain awake, trying to get up the courage to do something other than glare when he saw him. How many vague notes had ended up crumpled in the waist bin of his dorm before he could ever send them. How he had almost approached him several times in the Quidditch locker room after a match. How he had paid enough attention to him over the years to realize there was nothing bad in him to hate, and that he had never hated him in the first place. He had begun to detest him, sure, for the torture he brought onto Draco's mind. That had caused a lot of biting comments. But he hadn't really 'hated' Harry. Oh no, the powerful feelings he had toward the wizarding world's Golden Boy were of another type of passion entirely.  
  
By the end of it the painting was staring at him in subdued shock. " _You should have told me,"_ it said quietly. " _I could have helped you. Kept you from You Know Who."_  
"But you wouldn't have," the Slytherin mumbled back. "Why would the Boy Who Lived dirty his rep by associating with a death eater's son? You said it yourself; you can tell the wrong sort of people for your self."  
The portrait gave a muffled little sigh. " _Keeping someone safe, and not-a-death-eater is much more important than a 'reputation', Malfoy."_  
"I wouldn't have accepted it. I'm greedy and prideful, I wouldn't have taken your help without your heart," he murmured.  
" _Who said you couldn't have it?"_  
  
Draco looked up at the canvas, the remains of frustrated tears on his pointed face. "What?"  
" _Well, I thought you were a prick. Had I known all of this, what was under the mask, maybe.. maybe things would have been different,"_ the painting suggested. " _Who knows?"_  
Draco wrapped his hands over his head. That only made it worse; to know that if he'd just swallowed back his damned pride and told Harry how he felt, not only could he have been safe, and never been forced to take the Mark, he might have  _had_ him. What he'd coveted so long. And now it was probably too late; the entire wizarding world was clinging to hope, but there was no promise that Harry would ever come out of the coma he'd been put into after being blasted through the wall of Hogwarts and down to the ground below. Draco had been standing ten feet from him during the battle; had he moved quickly enough it might have been him.  
  
Maybe this painting wasn't such a good idea. Around dinner time his mum came to fetch him and he reluctantly stashed the painting in his closet.  
  
He returned to it the next morning, and conversed with it once again, which mainly just brought more regrets onto him.  
But on the third morning, to his horror, the painting was just a painting. It did not smile up at him when he went to retrieve it from his cupboard, only stared resolutely in the way it was originally created. He brushed off Narcissa's questions of 'what's wrong?' as he pouted in a very un-Malfoy-ish way over breakfast, but soon received news that made the portrait's lack of life seem insignificant in comparison.  
When their copy of the Daily Prophet fluttered through his bedroom window later and was dropped on top of his sulking form, he glanced at it distantly before doing a double take.   
  
Across the front page in almost ridiculously large letters was sprawled the title ' **HERO OF THE WIZARDING WORLD RETURNED FROM COMA- PEOPLE EVERYWHERE REJOICING'**  
  
Draco stared at the paper for a long while, maybe an hour, before moving again. Harry would get to see the world after the end of the war. Harry was awake. And on the same morning his painting ceased to be animated.  
That was just too big of a coincidence, wasn't it?  
  
He showed his mother, who seemed vaguely surprised, but otherwise didn't seem to care. Of course, she might have, had she been aware of what this meant for Draco.  
That evening's edition of the paper brought an interview with the Golden Boy, who said he felt perfectly fine now and would probably be released from the hospital soon.  
  
Draco  _had_ to get to him.


	2. Hufflepuffs Are Excellent Finders

It was not until nearly two weeks later that Draco's attempts to do this finally got him somewhere. He was sitting in the Three Broomsticks, sulking over an empty butterbeer, when a flash of white caught his eye. He looked up as it fluttered through the pub.

Potter's owl.

Contrary to his almost desperate wishing, the message it had was not for him. It dropped a simple-looking envelope on the table of a blonde girl in the corner of the pub.  
Draco tried not to scowl. He didn't even recognize her, what could Harry be writing to  _her_ for?  
He had to remind himself not to get possessive. It  _could_ have been a coincidence, the rational part of his mind pointed out. Harry might have no idea that you poured your heart and soul into a painting of him, only to have its animation snatched away from you two days later.

He watched as the girl opened up the letter, scanning the page before nodding slightly to herself and tucking it into her jacket. A closer look revealed that she was sitting across from none other than Neville Longbottom, Potter's friend, and when she opened her jacket to tuck the letter away the Hufflepuff scarf hidden underneath helped Draco place her face. He couldn't remember her name, but he recognized her from a few Double Astronomy classes they'd had with Hufflepuff, and he'd noticed her hanging around Potter's gang a few times in their later years there.

He ignored the voice in his head saying 'This is creepy,' as he followed her out of the pub from a distance. This was the closest link he- or anyone else, for that matter- had gotten to Harry since he was released from St Mungo's. He'd fallen completely off the face of the earth, which didn't exactly make Draco's task easier.

By the time she popped in and out of six shops, Draco was getting frustrated. He wasn't sure what he was waiting for, but when she carried her armful of bags over to the nearest Apparation point, he knew he had to do  _something._ He scurried up to her, pausing in uncertainty before tapping her on the shoulder.

That must have been just the right moment, because the ground fell out from under him. When he blinked, he was standing in an unfamiliar house. Thank god, the Hufflepuff girl didn't seem to notice him. He stepped silently away from her, ducking into a room-which, after a glance, was diagnosed as a bathroom- and shutting the door without a sound.  
"I've got those things you requested," he heard her call, and there was the shuffling of packages as she sat her shopping load onto a table. How was he going to get out of here? She would surely hear him if he tried to Apparate.  
But his searching for an exit he could reach without being noticed was pulled to a halt when he heard a second set of footsteps answer her call. "Wow, that was quick. Thanks a lot, Hannah," came a warm voice that made Draco worry about the pounding of his heart being heard.

"No problem, Harry. Neville was a genius for suggesting this; no one would suspect Random Classmate Hannah to be the one in contact with Harry Potter," she said brightly, "But you can't hide here forever. When are you going to return to the world?" She asked, though she didn't sound half as curious as Draco felt.  
"I'm... working on it," the green-eyed mystery admitted. "I'm trying to sort some things out, before I go back to being harassed by the press and everyone else, and I'm enjoying my bit of solitude."  
"Well... I suppose I can understand that. But whatever you're trying to do, do try and do it quickly, alright? Ronald is about ready to come and forcibly remove you from this musty flat," she said with the air of a laugh. "Speaking of the outside world, I've actually got to return to it; lunch with Susan Bones in twenty minutes, and she's always early," she said.  
There was a soft sound that Draco soon realized must have been a chuckle, and Harry spoke. "Alright. Thanks again, Hannah. I'll write you again if I need anything else."

Draco heard a pop as the blonde Disapparated, and shuffling as Harry fiddled with the packages she'd brought him on the table. The sounds were replaced by footsteps that Draco realized a moment too late were coming toward his door. Two pairs of eyes widened as the bathroom door was pulled open and the boys found themselves face to face.

Harry jumped at the sight, nearly slamming the door back in his face on instinct. "Malfoy?! What are you doing in my bathroom?!" He asked incredulously.  
"I-I.. I-" Draco stuttered, backing away from Harry. "I was trying to talk to that Hufflepuff girl, b-but she Disapparated before I knew what was happening," he managed.  
Harry raised an eyebrow at him. "...So you hid in my bathroom? Why didn't you just leave?" he asked, still in shock over the fact that Draco Malfoy was standing in his bathroom.

Draco seemed about as surprised as Harry did, but a hundred times more awkward. "I- I don't know." He looked up from the floor to Harry's face, as if hoping to find some recognition, some sign that maybe- just maybe- he'd somehow received their conversations via Draco's painting. But there was only surprise. "Where are we, anyway?" Draco asked, looking around for a window, but they all had thin curtains pulled over them, obscuring the world outside.  
"I, I can't tell you that," Potter murmured. "Can't have you blabbing to the press and them knocking down my door."  
Draco frowned a little, but it was moreso because that phrase almost definitely confirmed that Harry was oblivious to Draco's confessions. "Fine, then. I should get out of here anyway, it's not like--" he cut himself off, grumbling slightly as he stepped out of the bathroom, retrieving his wand to Disapparate.

"It's not like what?" Potter asked, and his tone made it clear Draco wasn't getting out of here without an explanation. He didn't really know what to tell him; he couldn't exactly come out and say 'It's not like you heard me confess that I've been interested in you for years and how sorry I am about everything and that I spent almost an entire day painting you just to say it.' No, no way could he say that.  
"I- nothing. I was going to say it's not like you- want company around here anyway, obviously, if you're hiding from the world," he huffed, doing his best to sound like his snarky old self.

Harry made a bit of a face, crossing his arms. "Especially not company that hides in my bathroom and grumbles at me for taking a break from society," he returned, after which Draco was quiet for a few moments before speaking again. "What was it like? Being in a coma, I mean?" he dared to ask.

Potter seemed surprised again by the question. "It- odd," he answered. "I had a lot of... dreams, I suppose. Long, vivid, weird dreams.." he seemed to shake himself out of it. "Wait-why am I telling you this, you're supposed to be leaving." This made Draco grimace a little again, but he made no move of his wand. What were they like? The dreams, I mean."  
Harry seemed to falter; an obvious sign of withholding something. "That's none of _your_  business, I'm sure," he returned, seeming especially sour.  
"What's  _that_ supposed to mean?" Draco asked, crossing his arms. "What did I do?"  
"Ah- nothing, Malfoy. You didn't do anything," Harry spat, looking away, and a little flicker of hope returned to Draco's chest.

"Or did I?" He murmured knowingly, praying that his suspicions were correct, otherwise this was going to be very hard to explain. "Are you sure none of those dreams were about me?" he pressed quietly.  
Harry scoffed. "Of course they weren't," he said, "Why would I--" he cut himself off as he looked up and caught Draco's expression. "Why are you looking at me like that?" he asked, crossing his arms again. There was no way Malfoy could know about that weird dream he'd had.  
"Because I think you  _did_ have a dream. About me. And I think that you think that it is too weird to be true, but it is," Draco said.  
Harry scrunched up his nose. "Wha- you don't make any sense. I was in a coma, I was dreaming, how could it be real?"  
"So you do admit it- you had a weird dream about me! It  _was_ real, I made a painting so I could talk to you, like the ones at Hogwarts," he said, blushing when he realized that he might still be wrong and this might all fall through to embarrass him.

Harry looked astonished, and stepped away from him a little. "Wha- how-- ... why would you do that? I mean- I know /why/, you told me why.." he looked down, wriggling his bare toes a little. "I- I can't believe that was  _real_. That's weird, isn't it? I shouldn't have been able to hear you, that.. I don't think that's ever happened before, a live person communicating through a portrait.."

"Maybe it's because you were close to death," Draco mumbled, looking a little guilty. "It stopped being 'alive' the morning you woke up," he said.  
"Maybe," Harry agreed, before looking up, the light of realization in his eyes. "Oh! It was real- that means you-" he blushed, as did Malfoy.  
"You really do catch on fast," the blonde taunted, not exactly meeting his eyes. There was a very awkward silence between them for too many heartbeats before Draco dared to speak again, hardly more than a whisper. "You said if you knew, things might have been different," he muttered softly. "You said I might have had you- your heart.." he said, whispering and blushing as if he couldn't believe he was saying this- which, of course, he  _couldn't._  

"It was a dream," Harry said defensively, and Draco looked offput, which surprised him.  
"So you didn't mean it, then?" the Malfoy asked, his gaze flickering away. Why would Harry have said those things, if he was aware, and didn't mean it?  
"I-.. I didn't say I didn't mean it,"  the Saviour said a bit grumpily, or was it confusedly? "I don't know, I thought it was just a dream! I've been thinking about it since I woke up," he murmured, suddenly very interested in a loose string on his shirt.

"Did you or didn't you?" Draco asked. "Let's not beat around the bush here, Golden Boy, before one of us gets more embarrassed than we already are."  
Harry looked up, seeming only slightly surprised by the words. "I- I did.." he whispered, still unable to meet Draco's eyes. "..I thought you were an arse. But you were so sad, and earnest, and.. real. I still can hardly believe it," he mumbled again. "That's so not.. you,  _Malfoy."_  
"Yeah, well, there's a lot you don't know about me," he added.

"So... I guess this means things are.. 'different'," Harry said, and Draco looked up from his expensive shoes, wearing an inquiring frown. "Well, I'm awake, and you're not an arse, and.. the war's over.." Harry rambled, and Draco felt something flutter in his chest.  
"Oh."


End file.
